Two Men and a Baby
by Contra Mundi
Summary: When the Vimeses go to Uberwald for a visit, highly paranoid Sam Vimes leaves his precious son in Lord Vetinari's care figuring that Young Sam can hardly come to harm there. What happens to Drumknott and the Patrician hardly matters. Slash
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: This is not my story. It's my sister's and she's too lazy to make an account here. Though apparently, not lazy enough not to write fanfics but greedy enough to want feedback. Humor her. Oh, and though this story is hers, the characters belong to Terry Pratchett.

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Vetinari knew how this was supposed to go. He sought Vimes out to take care of a problem. Vimes did not seek _him_ out to take care of problems. After all, a tyrant's got to have _some_ rest from that badly shaved face, and barely controlled rage. And of late, Vimes had been showing people family photos, cornering them and shaking a truncheon to get their attention if necessary.

Drumknott was probably coming in for, hopefully, the more restrained treatment because in the next room, Vetinari could hear his personal clerk's quiet, soothing, sincere voice assuring Vimes that: "…yes, young Sam _is_ coming on, isn't he? How time flies, last time his lordship told me about him he was barely a nipper, wasn't he, and now look at him, already walking, that's adorable…"

Vetinari _knew_ Rufus Drumknott, every inch of his body, every swing of his gestures, every nuance of his speech…wait - that sounded wrong, as if Vetinari had spent more time than usual on watching his head clerk move around (and he especially _had not_ watched when Drumknott bent over to slot files in the lower drawers)…

Vetinari shook his head slightly, frowning. Anyway, the point of it was that Drumknott really did sound enthusiastic about Young Sam. And the last comment he could recall making about Vimes's son was something along the lines of, "Looks like a pink slug now, but will probably grow up with its father's look. Gods help it."

To which Drumknott had replied: "There are worse things, your Lordship."

Then they had gotten on with their work, and Vetinari had allowed himself to wonder, for one disconcerting second, if Drumknott found Vimes attractive.

A gentle tap on the door recalled him, and then Drumknott eased in with his oiled silence. "His grace, the Duke, and his wife to see you, sir," he said. "Shall I tell them to come in?"

"They'll come in anyway," said Vetinari, steepling his fingers with a faint, resigned air as to his fate. Drumknott's mouth lifted in the corners with a slight smile, and he nodded at his master, before disappearing.

"Good morning, Havelock!" Sybil Vimes, Ramkins as was, smiled at him as she glided into the room. There was something about her that spoke of capability, common sense and sunshine. Lots of golden sunshine. Vimes had long had the look of someone who'd sensibly slathered on a great deal of suntan lotion and could now bask happily. Cradled in his arms was Sam Jnr, a round, rosy-cheeked infant with a tuft of red-brown hair and a look of chronic stupidity.

Well, that is, he looked happy and naïve and innocent. His greatest desire was to have a sweetie, lots of sweeties.

All in all, they looked like a happy family, even if Vimes was wearing his signature blank-to-the-point-of-idiocy look. Vetinari caught sight of a wistful look in Drumknott's eyes before the clerk vanished round the door.

Eh?

"…I'm sorry?" he said.

Sybil smiled at him, a trifle pleadingly. "We were just asking, d'you think you could watch Sam here for us while we go off for a holiday, Havelock?"

"No," said Vetinari.

There was a pause.

"I meant _Young_ Sam, Havelock."

"Oh." Vetinari's face was a complete blank. "Excuse me a moment…" In recent years, the small bell he used to summon Drumknott had been replaced by a little golden horn, and down it he whispered, "_Get in here right now, Drumknott._"

Then he replaced the speaker, and smiled at the Vimeses. "But Mrs. Vimes, I don't quite understand…" Drumknott entered the room. "Why exactly are you proposing on leaving young Sam in _my _care?"

"Precisely what I want to know," muttered Vimes, not quite under his breath.

Sybil shot him a reproachful look. "Well, you see, we can't really bring him along this particular trip."

"I don't see why not," said Vetinari, looking down at a few documents he had on hand, sensing, in some odd way, that he was losing the battle to Mrs. Vimes's sheer, unbeatable likeability. "After all, you've brought him along on your other family holidays, haven't you?"

"Oh yes, the one with the dwarves…" muttered Vimes again. "That was a laugh and a half…"

"_Sam_…"

Vimes pulled a face. "Respectfully speaking, sir, even I don't particularly want my son to come along with us. I think he'll be safer here – even under your care-"

There was a muffled coughing sound from Drumknott, which could've been drowned out by a summer breeze, but Vetinari heard. He turned his painfully blank face onto the clerk. Drumknott stopped laughing.

"– and Sam and I need some time alone," added Sybil, patting her husband's shoulder. To Vetinari's malicious amusement, Vimes blushed. Young Sam, apparently unaware that his parents were trying to dump him upon the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork, gurgled.

"I understand that there is great hospitality in Uberwald…" tried Vetinari.

"You must've heard wrong, I could've sworn it was 'hostility'," replied Vimes.

"Sam!" Sybil turned to Vetinari, and there was a deadly finality in her tone that only the richest noblewoman of Ankh-Morpork could use on the Patrician. "I'm sorry, Havelock, but Sam doesn't want to risk it, even though Count Vladimus Von Willenstein is an old family friend and you're our last hope, really. It's only for a few weeks…"

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"Argggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggg!"

Double exclamation marks were not often heard in the Patrician's palace- besides the scorpion pit - where muted efficiency was the keyword. Young Sam, once he found out that his parents were gone and he was, indeed, not going to get any sweeties, had let out his ire the only way he knew how.

"Arrrrrrrrgggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggg!"

Young Sam had been dumped on Drumknott, the moment the Vimeses had left the palace. For a while, he had played happily with rubber bands, pins and ink, messing up a week's worth of correspondence. All of a sudden, he had lifted his head as if listening for an expected voice – possibly one telling him, "No, no, Sammy, we don't put that in our mouths." – and hearing nothing, burst noisily and theatrically into tears.

Drumknott did his best to calm the boy, in the way most people who don't have much to do with children use. He stroked Young Sam's hair and tried to dab at his tears with a file and crooned, "Shhh, shhh, what's the matter? You miss your mommy and daddy, don't you? Shhh…"

The only thing he did right was not use baby talk.

Vetinari appeared in the doorway of his office. "Drumknott!" he said above the gale-force howling of Young Sam. "Bring that little-"

"Sir!"

"-child here to me," said Vetinari, not missing a beat. He drew forth from his pocket, small pellet shaped objects, striding towards Drumknott who backed away, until he and squalling Young Sam were up against the wall.

"My lord!" he said desperately. "I really don't think that his Grace and her ladyship are going to be very happy if Young Sam isn't safe and healthy and ready to be delivered to them – and not in a coffin too, sir, if I may venture an opinion -"

"What in the world are you babbling about?" asked Vetinari mildly, as he reached out a hand to pop something into the baby's mouth. Drumknott cringed. There was a pause. Young Sam grew quiet. He made happy sucking noises, tears mysteriously gone.

"Sweeties," said Vetinari, without a change of expression on his face. He ate one himself, and offered the handful to Drumknott. "I think one every time he opens his mouth to yell should suffice, Drumknott."

"Y-yes, sir," replied Drumknott, hypnotized by the danger of his situation. Many a mime had been sent to the scorpion pit for less. Delicately, Vetinari poured the excess sweets into Drumknott's pockets. "T-there isn't anything… harmful about these, are they, my lord?"

"Certainly not," said Vetinari calmly. "Outside of the usual diabetes, cavities, obesity. Have one?"

"No thank you," said Drumknott, but nevertheless had one popped into his mouth as well. He swallowed and nearly choked himself. Vetinari turned to go back into his office. Drumknott's face felt hot. The sweet really was rather good after all…

"Like it? Good, I received a packet from Downey. I believe he said his grandchildren used to enjoy them, so unfortunate they passed away early. Bless their souls," said Vetinari, before closing his office door. He heard the sound of someone spitting out a sweet, and then – from the yells beginning to grow in depth and volume – Drumknott was probably trying to take the candy out of Young Sam's mouth as well.

He smiled to himself and licked his sticky fingers.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thank you for the reviews! (This being the Sister talking, not Contra Mundi). I highly appreciate them. I'd like to give you a long, detailed explanation of great genius as to how I came to choose this plot, driving home much symbolism and metaphor (aka, Great, Fat Lies). However, I'm rather ashamed to say, it popped into my head one night, unaccompanied by revelations, flaming angels, or indeed, a devil with a violin.

Ihadanepiphany (how interesting! What did it feel like?): Thank you for saying you were carried along with the plot! It's a little far-fetched, I admit, and I was worried by it, so your review was a great reassurance.

Syntia13: You're the one who inspired me to write this new chapter so figuratively 'soon', I'm afraid that if I wait too long, you'll lose interest and disappear along with my muse-fodder. Thank you for the review!

Lady Twatterby: Of course there will be more Vetinari/Drumknott! It's practically canon, I tell you, CANON. Do you know why Vetinari always gets those little figures of speech wrong? Have you ever wondered? Hah! It's so he can get Drumknott to _lean in and put his mouth close to his (Vetinari's obviously, because if Drumknott's mouth alone were that flexible… well…) ear!_

-wanders off singing the chorus to Maskerade-

Oh yes, and thanks for the review!

A/N2: I'm not sure if any of you have favorited this story, or if, like you get mails when the chapter is editted. In which case you probably have five hundred mails in your inbox owing to my complete idiocy. I'm terribly sorry. Contra's pissed at me this evening and won't help me.

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As the road led away from Ankh-Morpork, the trails became notably bumpier, Constable Ping thought. That was probably why Commander Vimes seemed to be – well, 'cuddled' was as good a word as any, Ping supposed with a slight shudder – against his wife. Really, alone on his seat, Ping slipped and slid here and there, while the Vimeses were pressed together as the carriage tossed here and there.

Maybe on the roof of the vehicle one didn't feel the impact so much. After a while on the road, Captain Carrot, Angua and Cheery Littlebottom had exchanged looks and gone on up. Carrot had extended an invitation to Ping, but he had decided to stay where he was, reason being that he while he had no problems with heights, he did, indeed, have a problem with falling.

Ping couldn't see where Vimes's hand was.

It was probably a good thing.

Vimes shifted. "Ping, you look a little green. Why don't you go on up?"

"I don't want to get greener, sir. Or… squashier… and redder…"

"Ah," said Lady Sybil weakly.

There was silence for a while. Vimes seemed to be looking outside at the scenery from one window. Lady Sybil looked out of the other. Ping, for lack of anything to do, looked at them.

Although observant, he wasn't the very smartest of constables. Ping could see the dots, but connecting them took time and a tongue sticking out from the corner of his mouth.. Slowly, heavily, like Young Sam drawing with his blunt crayons, tongue-out-at-the-corner-of-his-mouth-like, Ping blinked.

"I think I'll go on up," he said finally.

Vimes looked at him. The back of Lady Sybil's neck was red. "You do that," said Vimes, a trifle heavily.

Ping couldn't get out of there fast enough. Carrot, Angua and Cheery gave him sympathetic looks as he hauled himself out and promptly attempted to spread himself out on the roof, burying his face into the musty canvas on top. They didn't say anything. They didn't need to.

It should be criminal for people over forty to do, you know… _that._

Meanwhile, Lady Sybil looked at her husband. "Sam, do you think he…?"

"Of course not," said Vimes soothingly. "Ping is in training to be the next Fred."

"Oh, I see," said Sybil. Her breathing was a little erratic. Her, Sam blushed, mammary glands were heaving slightly as she…

"Sybil…?"

"Yes, Sam?"

"Is that your hand?"

"Yes, dear."

"Gods."

"_Yes, dear_."

---

Drumknott and Vetinari were having decidedly less fun. This was not Vetinari's fault. It's not like he would have _minded_. He had even decided to move Drumknott's desk into the Oblong Office, ostensibly, Vetinari could watch Young Sam. It is probably more accurate to say he watched Drumknott watch Young Sam. If Vetinari even watched Young Sam at all. However, it could be agreed that Drumknott was getting the worse of the deal. Young Sam tugged at his shirt, pulling is all askew as he whined, wanting to sit in Drumknott's lap while he attempted to categorize Rains of Zebras in Klatch by date, heaviness of the shower, and the difference of stripes.

"Alright, alright," he sighed, bending down and hauling the chubby ball of destruction onto his lap. "Now let's see, in the winter of the year of the Flying Donkey, there was a brief shower of species _Eructatus Parallelus _which escalated quickly into a torrential downpour, providing the Dregs with much food and inciting a battle over – what is it, now?"

Young Sam was bouncing up and down ineffectively. He had stopped suddenly, jolting Drumknott's papers, and was looking at nothing in particular with a look of concentration on his face. Drumknott lifted him up worriedly, staring at the round face. "What is it? Sammy?"

"'Sammy?'" repeated Vetinari, dubiously. His eyes carried from Drumknott to Young Sam, and he was just in time to say, "Er, Drumknott…"

A Bad Smell started.

Drumknott stared at Young Sam as he began to relax himself and beamed toothlessly at Drumknott. "That's…" said Drumknott weakly. "That's… very… good, Sammy…" Regard for his head clerk grew by leaps and bounds as Vetinari watched him calmly set Young Sam onto the desk and began to rummage in the dinosaur of the bag that Sybil Vimes had gotten a troll to carry up. The bag was so big that it seemed to have its own gravitational field. He pulled out a diaper, powder and pins.

Drumknott lifted Young Sam and went out. Unfortunately, the Smell did not. It could be worse, Vetinari reflected. Foul Ole Ron's Smell might meet Young Sam's Smell. They might fall in love. And make lots of new Smells. A few minutes later, Drumknott was back with the waxen expression of a man who had hanglided over hell. Silently, he walked over to Vetinari and plunked Young Sam down onto the large desk. The boy looked at the Patrician with round eyes, and started to suck his thumb.

"_Your turn_," hissed Drumknott. His salary didn't cover this! It wasn't as if he got any extra perks either! The best it ever got was when Vetinari sucked at his pen absent-mindedly! –

-- Drumknott almost wavered. Then the sight of his desk, with papers actually jutting out _in no particular order at all_, and iconographs of zebras brought him to his senses and his heart seemed to bleed with a hundred paper cuts. He walked towards his resolutely, paused for a moment, turned, added, "And we don't put that in our mouths, Sammy."

"Drumknott-" Vetinari started to protest.

His clerk turned on him with all the pain of misfiling brimming in his wide, brown eyes.

The Patrician closed his mouth quietly. Young Sam began to cry. Vetinari watched as Drumknott _almost_ turned and came running. Then he got a grip, and went towards his pile of paperwork. The sweet hum of alphabetical filing would fill his soul and grant him immunity from the world for a while.

In the meantime…

He gave Young Sam a look, complete with two raised eyebrows. "You will stop this crying," he stated.

Young Sam gave him a dark look, and to Vetinari's disbelief, the little monster's cheeks were as dry as Klatch, even as he continued to churn out that long, grating wail. Which he didn't even attempt to tone down in the least. Vetinari frowned. He was used to making grown man wet their – be very uneasy. He leaned forward, normally a tactic that made most, including Commander Vimes, jerk back.

His son, instead, leaned forward as well, till they were almost curl to forehead.

Drumknott, glancing up as he squared some files, stared, and then closed his eyes and said a little prayer to the patron saint of children – Juvenilinus.

"Gagh," said Young Sam.

"Let me put it to you this way then," said Vetinari quietly, ruining a perfectly good chance to say "I'm sorry, I don't speak _monkey_". Drumknott strained forward to hear but the words sounded like nothing but the rustle of curtains at the window from where he was. Young Sam gurgled and drooled.

"Argh ga," he said finally.

"Good," said Vetinari sitting back. "I'm glad that's settled."

"Ahgagaga good um du moo da," said Young Sam with the air of one who can't wait to grow up. "Buglit."

Vetinari's face split _immediately_ into a wide, bright smile. "My, my, what books have daddy been reading to you?"

"Um…" said Drumknott from his corner. Vetinari found that he rather enjoyed being able to look up from his letters (delicately worded threats) to various sovereigns and guilds to take little glances at his head clerk. Normally, he resorted to asking Drumknott for files at the bottom of the filing cabinets. One of these days…

…he was going to pay the laundress to shrink Drumknott's pants…

"Yes, Drumknott?" he said curtly, shaking the image out of his head.

"Commander Vimes left a selection of books here, sir. He, er, specifically instructed for…someone to read them to his son at six in the evening. So the books he has been reading to Sammy are _Where's My Cow?_, _Where's My Rabbit, Pietre and Janet Have Fun-_"

"Oh, that one sounds interesting."

"They play with a big red ball, my lord," said Drumknott with a completely straight face. "And have picnics in meadows. What else? Oh, there's _Gary Had A Little Ram, Frothingale Has Two Mummies, Ding A Dong A Dozy, _and-"

"I'm sure that you'll be able to do quite as well as Vimes does in amusing and educating his little br- boy, Drumknott," said Vetinari with an air of finality.

"Sir?" said Drumknott, bristling.

"I rule the _city_!"

Drumknott subsided, "As if that's any excuse…" and mentally drafted a letter in which he asked for a raise and for Vetinari to suck his pens more often.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Look, I'm not old, I haven't got a beard, and I'm not even a man. Plus, my greenhouse isn't taking over my backyard. Nope. I'm not Pterry.

Author notes:

Syntia13: pets you on the back Thank you very much! I highly appreciate your laughter.

Gestalt: Yes, I rather think there'll be more pen-sucking too, though whether Drumknott will be doing it, or Vetinari, remains to be seen. Thanks for the review!

Caethilia Mordon: Oh yes, absolutely binkers! Like the idea of a Mobius strip, completely twisted, but tantalizingly possible.

Lady Twatterby: THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THE FANART. A million, million times, thank you. I adore it. Everytime I'm stuck with the story, I just open it and stare at it a while and everything seems to come out alright after all (well, I think so anyway. I can but hope that the other reviewers think the same).

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The six 'o' clock story-telling session was not going very well. Compared to the, metaphorically, technicolor, surround-sound of Commander Vimes; Drumknott was a silent, black and white movie on a small, fuzzy screen. Young Sam stared up at that moving mouth that was spouting words he could hear, but couldn't quite understand. Where was the bellowing 'MOOO', the shrill 'OIIIINK', the crusty 'NEIIIIIGHHH'?

"Is that my cow?" read Drumknott steadily. "It goes 'cluck'. That is a chicken. That is not my cow."

"BCKBCKBCKBCKAAA!" cried Young Sam.

Drumknott stared at the boy. The clerk was a city man, through and through. "Are you feeling alright, Sammy?" he asked, putting a cool hand against the warm, round forehead.

Young Sam blew a raspberry and flopped his fat arms, imitating Vimes imitating the way the chicken's wings flapped. Not very accurately done, since the closest contact Vimes had with a chicken wings was when they were charred back and bubbling with oil, so salty they could burn through a brick.

Drumknott decided that with this much energy, Young Sam was probably alright. He even found himself hoping that Young Sam would overtax himself and drop d- down into a deep sleep from which he wouldn't waken until his loving parents were ready to take him back into their loving, and apparently indestructible, hands.

All day long, Drumknott had been running after Young Sam. The boy seemed to alternate between toddling and crawling and he was speedier even than someone running out of Vetinari's office - which was saying something. Vetinari's genteel "Don't let me detain you" had the effect of the rope snapping while being hanged.

As metaphors go, this is probably less of a lie than others.

Drumknott's eyes were heavy. While he could, would and did spend hours sorting through Vetinari's correspondence, snatching a few hours of intense sleep here and there, Drumknott had never felt the urge to fall into his bed and snooze the night away. But then again, he had never had to take care of a hyperactive toddler before either. He was nodding over the last page.

"Is that my cow…?" he read dreamily. "It goes 'moo'. That is my cow…"

"MOOOOO!" bellowed Young Sam as Drumknott's head fell forward, and the book slowly slipped out of his hands and landed on the floor. Sam stared, clutching onto Drumknott's lapels as the book hit the floor.

His eyes widened.

Dead! The Book was _DEAD!_

It came out more like, "Agagagadoom'EAD!"

Drumknott murmured a little in his sleep, head drooping. Young Sam shimmied down his leg and landed on his be-diapered behind, he poked the book cautiously, and seeing that a few pages had fallen out (little surprise, considering Young Sam, besides using that book for the educational purposes of finding cows, also used it as a pillow, a soft toy, and occasionally, a weapon.), did _not_ burst out crying. He was Sam Vimes's child after all.

His small jaw tightened, and with the air of one on a commando mission, he started to waddle out of the room. One can only hope that his inexpertly pinned diapers would hold.

----

There was a messy pounding on the door. The knocks were inaccurate, without a steady rhythm, and seemed to be coming somewhere from where Vetinari's knees were. He paused before opening it, having selected from his secret stash of weapons. (Some people hoard chocolate, but the Patrician, well… you could try choking an assassin with chocolate of course but it just doesn't have tone to it.)

Yanking the door open, Vetinari sliced in one, sharp, accurate moment.

It would have been a very impressive moment, with blood splattering from severed tendons, if there was anyone there.

"Gaaa," said a disparaging voice from under his kneecaps.

Vetinari looked down. "Oh, I see," he said. "What now?"

"Gaaaaaaa," said Young Sam again, and turned to go. The door slammed behind him, narrowly missing the heap of diapers on his bottom.

There was another set of uneven knocks. Vetinari paused on the way to his desk, sighed, and turned to open the door again. "Oh, _I_ see," he said, "this is one of those little Lassie things, is it? You've come to get help because Drumknott has probably stubbed his toe, or something, yes?"

…completely unbidden, the sudden image of Drumknott, blood cascading down his arm as _someone _stabbed him, so the Patrician would be blamed…

Vetinari followed Young Sam.

They made slow progress because Young Sam kept making wrong turnings, and then he plumped down on his fat behind and whined because the skin of his knees were worn off. In the end Vetinari had to take his chubby hand and they toddled along the corridor. Several servants crossed their way but pretended not to see. It was the only way to save their eyes from being ceremonially gouged out, according to the look on Vetinari's face.

Young Sam apparently felt the need for a snack, because he popped his thumb into his mouth. Several housemaids cum fangirls nearly fainted at the sight of the Patrician walking hand in hand with an adorable baby boy, padding down the halls.

One of them ran off to do fanart.

Anyone else might have yanked the door open roughly, yelling, "Drumknott! Are you alright!" But when he reached Drumknott's room, Vetinari gently eased the door open, sliding the blade he kept out of the cane. Of course he kept a blade neatly in his cane to be pulled out if necessary. It was so clichéd that no one believed Havelock Vetinari would resort to it – a mistaken belief often to be the last of mistaken beliefs.

Drumknott was sprawled in a chair, a book at his feet, pages on the floor. His eyes were closed.

Young Sam burst into tears anew.

"He's just asleep!" said Vetinari, eyes narrowing. "You brought me here all this way just because Rufus Drumknott fell a--"

Young Sam waddled over to the remains of his book and picked them up, sniffing theatrically.

Vetinari ignored the boy and studied his clerk. Drumknott was going to wake up with a bad back if he was left to sleep in that rigid oak chair. His face was rosy in sleep, mouth halfway open.

Vetinari suspected that he was in love. On anyone else, the sleep-loosened face would have looked idiotic. On Rufus Drumknott, the Patrician found his stomach twisted with the innocence of it. Carefully, he leaned down and scooped the man up.

Possibly he had been reading a little too much of those love stories in the Entertainment Page of the _Times_ – 'human interest' – he believed that charming young woman Sacharissa Crisplock might've said. Steely, grey-eyed men picked up young women, and always found them a little lighter than expected.

Vetinari staggered a little. Drumknott felt, for a moment, like a sack of wet flour in his wiry arms. But warm. Vetinari could feel that warmth even through his black robes. "Ummm," murmured his clerk, turning his face into Vetinari's chest.

Nothing could spoil that moment. Not even Young Sam pointing at the picture of the cow and saying sadly, "No mooooooo."

Vetinari glided slowly over to the bed, covers turned neatly down (Who still made their beds, even when their mothers were no longer around? Rufus Drumknott, that's who) and laid his head clerk gently onto the covers and contemplated undressing him. To put him in his nightshirt of course. Nothing else.

He didn't do it in the end. It's a terrible thing not to be able to trust yourself.

Instead, Vetinari turned away from the sleeping clerk, and studied his surroundings. William De Worde was wrong, for once. Drumknott did have a personality. He didn't wear his heart on his sleeve, or his characteristics on his person, but his room verily _breathed_ Drumknottyness.

It was fascinating.

"Cluck, cluck," said Young Sam sadly, staring at the picture of a chicken that had fallen out of the worn book.

"Oh, stop angling for attention," said Vetinari, staring around at the neat, quiet surroundings. Drumknott had thrown out every piece of palace furniture in his room, with the effect of his things, bed (seldom used), chairs, tables all being highly inferior – likely to fall apart somewhere into the next century – but extremely personable. There were iconographs on one wall, of his family, and his desk had a few books on it, along with papers covered with his neat, rounded writing.

The whole room was hushed, as a whisper, and warm as a smile.

Extraordinary.

Vetinari moved over to the desk, wondering if Drumknott kept a diary.


	4. Chapter 4

Author notes: My apologies for this chapter taking a longer than usual time (at least, I think it's longer than usual. Do I normally take this long? Oo)

Saffron Starilight: Welcome and thanks for finding it adorable!

Gestalt: Oh yess, of course Drumknott keeps a diary! And he doesn't even put it in code either. Tut, tut.

Inigo: LOL, thank you very much for your reviews! As Drumknott might put it: V. appreciated

Akira Rae: snickersnicker Welcome, glad to see you! Cato misses you too. Hehe.

The Once Lady-Twatterby Now Drummers: I love your art. Seriously. I suspect this chapter was inspired all from the pictures you've done. One just can't get bored with Discworld, or Vetinari and Drumknott, when you're there drawing it all down. Thank you!

_15th Sektober_

_Lord V's dog bit Brian on behind. Clerk Brian not happy with good reason. Not own self's fault though, so cannot see why Clerk Brian wanted self to massage bite mark. Much eyebrow raising on his part as well as wriggling. Either dog had rabies, or Clerk Brian has been working too hard. Will mention to Lord V._

_17th Sektober_

_Laundress discovered meat in Clerk Brian's back pocket. That's why Wuffles bit him. V. careless of Clerk Brian, must say._

_18th Sektober_

_Caricature of Lord V. in the Times again. Have cut it out as self finds it v. amusing. Sketch is about Lord V's recent visit to Klatch. Involves busty virgins. Artist got gleam of oil on Lord V's stomach v. well though._

_20th Sektober _

_Artist thrown into scorpion pit. Got him to sign caricature._

_21st Sektober_

_Clerk Brian gave me tube of chocolate. Still having convulsive eyebrows, poor man. V. nice of him to give chocolate though. Not as if Hogswatch or birthday. Good chocolate too. All oozy and things. Mmm._

_12:00_

_Just threw Clerk Brian out of room. Came in with handcuffs and was v. pissed that self had finished all chocolate. Said that if I didn't like handcuffs, he had silk scarves. Replied, "It's not that I don't like handcuffs, or silk scarves, or chocolate, Brian. But this is a bit sudden. Erm."_

_22nd Sektober_

_Clerk Brian not speaking to me._

Vetinari turned the pages, horror-and-rather-more-than-a-little-awestruck at the going-ons in the staff room. He did, however, make a mental note to tactfully insinuate to Clerk Brian that he would cease and desist in his attempted seduction of Rufus Drumknott – or he would find that a certain part that doubtless egged on the handcuffs and melted chocolate would be painfully removed. And we're not talking about Brian's loving heart either.

He turned a few more pages, reading a line here and there in Drumknott's loose, rounded script. The light filtering in through the thin curtains (yellow with white daisies, for heavens' sake) made the room a flickering land of shine and shadow. Young Sam, dragging the mangled corpse of his favorite book with him, tugged at Vetinari's robes.

"Ag," he said insistently, pointing at the rumpled pages.

"No, that's actually a rabbit," said Vetinari. "See the ears?"

No! Young Sam would have said, had he the words. Cannot you see? The analytical domains are not dichotomous, but rather continua. The cyaneous color of the manuscript has degenerated into a state of ludification of the original tint! I am fraught! It is imperative that the tome be refurbished! Preferably with sticky tape!

As it was, all he could manage was, "Gaaaaaaa."

"Good heavens," said Vetinari, putting Drumknott's diary down (and just as well. The next page contained a very graphic description of his lordship's beard and how soft it looked). "This is page fifteen. No wonder you're mixed up. You probably remember it according to your father's reading, and having the sheets all mixed up must have confused you. It really is too bad. But as the Ephebian philosophers say: 'Tough luck'. And shouldn't you be in bed?"

Young Sam glared at him.

"Oh, my apologies," said Vetinari. "That was probably too many syllables for you." It was probably too many syllables for the average Ankh-Morporkian, anyway. Vetinari continued slowly and clearly, "Time – for – sleepy." And mimed laying his head on a pillow, all the while with a stony expression.

Foveated flaunuer! May you contract pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanokoniosis! But all Young Sam could do was scowl and waggle his tongue out ineffectually.

"Oh yes, you are," said Vetinari sternly, leaning down and picking the boy up. He held him ('it' was the term used by the Patrician though) at an arms-length and scrutinized him. "It is, I believe, time to go beddy-bye."

Young Sam wriggled, and cried, kicking at the Nasty Man. Drumknott stirred in his sleep, obviously unused to being awakened by a baby's cry. A soft mumble came from his drooling mouth as he flung an arm out. Vetinari felt a little rush of triumph that Clerk Brian had probably never gotten to see Drumknott like that, dreamily easing his fair-lashed eyes open while groping for his spectacles –

He sat up straight and put them on.

"Uwah!" he yelped at the sight of the Patrician. "My lord!"

"Ah, Drumknott," said Vetinari, turning towards him. "I believe Lady Vimes left a cradle for her offspring?" Young Sam turned his head, and was gummily gnawing at Vetinari's sleeve and part of his wrist. "He doesn't want to sleep, however."

"He- he's supposed to have a story read to him, Commander Vimes said, I mean, I did do that, but - but," Drumknott spluttered, unwittingly loosening his collar, gulping at the vision of what the future held for him and Young Sam both. There were red, squishy bits. "I – I'm terribly sorry, my lord."

"Why is the cradle by your own bed, Drumknott?" asked Vetinari, while Young Sam worried his sleeve like a younger, rather less foul-smelling, to say nothing of hairless, Wuffles.

"Er – where else was it supposed to be, sir…?"

"After all," said Vetinari, while Young Sam choked on a button, "they entrusted it to me. Ah well. So long as we make no mention of this, I suppose it will be alright…"

"I'm sure it will come as some relief to the Commander, sir," said Drumknott without thinking.

Vetinari looked at him for a long moment.

Drumknott's thought process went something like this: _Oh gods. Oh gods. And I'm so adverse to blood too. Particularly when it's my own. Oh gods. Make it quick. Please let him make it quick._

Vetinari's thought process was more along the lines of: _squirrel one. Squirrel two. Squirrel three. _By the time he got to five squirrels, the subject of his infamous gaze was normally drowned in their own sweat and saved Vetinari and the scorpions all that trouble.

Nervously, Drumknott swallowed and slipped his tongue over his dry mouth.

Vetinari lost count of the squirrels.

"Here you are then, Drumknott," he said, giving him Young Sam, and surreptitiously drying his sleeve on the seat of his robes. "Do you know, I believe I have just the thing for his age. Excuse me for a moment."

The tap, tap of his cane died away in the distance. Drumknott looked down at the Young Sam, and extricated a black button from his mouth. "But I did read to you," he said to himself despairingly. "I must have fallen asleep. Something I wish, by the way, that you would do." Young Sam played patty cake with himself. Drumknott stared at the black button in his hand. "But who put me into the bed?"

Hope, fear, and hope again, seared his face and his heart – and yes, a little bit of his libido. Disbelief threw cold water over it. Drumknott slumped, fingers closing and unclosing around the button.

"There we go," said Vetinari, materializing from a shadow; or so it seemed with his ever splendid timing. "Stories for the little folk. _Sternn Fairytales_. And annotated too." In his hand, he held a thick, gilded book.

Drumknott accepted it dumbly, and then Vetinari sat down in the chair, with an expectant look on his face. "Ah," said Drumknott. _Don't you have anything else to do, my lord?_ The words withered on his tongue. Drumknott managed a rictus on his face which vaguely resembled a smile and plumped Young Sam into the cradle.

The boy started to shake the rickety wooden bars and made vague monkey-like noises. That is, more monkey-like than usual. Drumknott pretended not to notice, and hastily opened a spongy page and began to read.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: I'm terribly, terribly sorry this chapter is so late. It took a couple of things to shock me back into being able to write, and took me a few more weeks to actually manage to steal the computer long enough to be able to jot everything down. First and foremost, I'd just like to say, if you're looking for a PLOT persay, I'm afraid I might disappoint you. The only plot is the romance, and the only objective is to amuse (and convert others to Drumknott/Vetinari, but I digress). With that in mind, I hope you read and enjoy! And review, obviously. Very important, that.

Syntia13: I like terrified!Drumknott too. He should have his own action figure. Looking up Young Sam's vocab was a pain the donkey. Burro. Whichever. Thank you very much for your review!

Twist: Thank you! And as for the stare... I read in one of those women's magazines, about how to intimdiate a co-worker or something along those lines. There was the 'stare for seven seconds' gag, and the desk gag, where you rest your elbows on a wide desk and stare down your opponent, as if, and I quote "I have a place to put my elbows on, and you, you little chipmunk, you have nothing!" Insert maniacal laughter etc. Put it together, transfigure chipmunks into squirrels and there you go. A wonderful excuse to be dragged off into the middle of the night and thrown into the scorpion pit! I consider it all worthwhile to have your lovely review. Thanks again!

Akira Rae: VERY big thank you to you! If you hadn't ask my sister when I was going to write more, I might have gotten even more complacent! And yes, Drumknott is VERY blur, isn't he? I always pictured him as such. I think he's the kind of person who is very good at reading emotions directed to OTHERS (ie: Vetinari) but not to himself, since he's often in the background.

Gestalt: Teehee, yes. I rather thought I'd balance up all the Vetinari-groping that's been going on (not that I'm not an active member but...) Thank you for the review!

Saffron-Starlight: Babies are smarter than you know. Gagagagoo could easily be the theory of relativity, for all we know. Thank you for the review!

Drummers: Vetinari isn't a man to rush in, m'dear. He takes time. He lays out his plans carefully, carefully. He insinuates, he purrs, he sets his ideas into motion and next thing you know, Drumknott's tied to the bed with silk scarves. Thank you for the review!

Inigo: THANK YOU (did I ever mention I love your username? I liked Inigo. I wish he hadn't been inhumed.)

Vaguely-Downwards- Good Omens, I'll bet? Thank you VERY much for your review. It feels good to be able to pull something like this off, because I know a lot of people look at Vetinari/Drumknott askance and wave their nasty little Vimes/Vetinari flags. Hmmph. I'm terribly sorry this new chapter took so long, and I hope it lives up to expectations.

ihadanepihany: Nice to see you around! Thanks for the review and... is mugged by squirrel with uzi What a plot bunny. I mean squirrel. There's something about a gun-toting squirrel that's even funnier...

----

"'Mother, mother', said Napunzel," and here, Drumknott attempted a high, falsetto voice that made Vetinari close his eyes momentarily. "'Why art thou so heavy? Hath thou been feasting too much on yon potatoes? Knoweth thou yon root vegetables giveth thee wind.' 'Wicked child!' shrilled the witch digging a comb into Napunzel's long golden hair, Napunzel immediately fell down into a dead swoon, whereupon her hair began to grow and the old crone hastened away by means of Napunzel's long hair for now that the child was asleep, there was none to hold the rope."

He was doing his very, very best to ignore the run-on sentences and even worse, the extra notes at the side. For example, what Napunzel, the herb-loving, hair-growing sleeping beauty said to alert her mother onto the prince's visits had not been a comment on her weight. What she had actually said was, "Mother, mother. Why is mine dresse so tight? And I hath been throwing up mightily."

Apparently, in the original folk-tale Napunzel and her prince had been exchanging love sonnets in the manner of the pen dipping into the ink, hnr, hnr, hnr, nudge nudge wink wink.

Which only confirmed Drumknott's views on the countryside because he was sure, things like these would _never_ happen in Ankh-Morpork. It had to be something about the potatoes. Sunshine Soap Washes Your Clothes White (the book was bound and reprinted in Ankh-Morpork, naturally advertisers saw their chance) had had tawdry adventures with the little dwarves apparently, and the jealous mother had been sanitized into a 'step-mother' instead. An alarming amount of parents had been stuffed into barrels studded with nails, torn apart by wild horses and worse. Sometimes all together. It was increasingly clear to Drumknott that a malcontent adolescent had probably penned the Sternn Happy Tales for Little Folk.

At any rate, Young Sam appeared to calm down remarkably. He sucked his thumb all through the wicked queen been forced to dance to death in red hot shoes and at the climax of burning flesh, he settled down into his pillow and fell asleep.

Drumknott let the book fall from his nerveless grasp, and lifted a blanket gently over the chubby body.

"He does look rather more fetching in his sleep," said Vetinari's voice from behind him.

Drumknott squeaked. If Vetinari hadn't been Vetinari; and Drumknott hadn't been Drumknott, the secretary would have squealed, "Jeez! Stop _doing_ that already!"

It is, perhaps, exactly because of this remarkable capacity to refrain from such remarks that Vetinari hired Drumknott instead of some lovely, young, nubile Seamstress with a mysterious past and a bad attitude that the Patrician will oddly put up with. She has a fiery temper, and a hard outer-covering, yet has a soft, sweet core inside that will manifest itself. She goes by many names, but is known to her victims – I'm sorry, I mean discerning readers – as Mariana (Maryana) – Susanna (Zuzana). Or just plain, Mary Sue.

But I digress. Let us go on with the sexual tension.

"I believe it has something to do with the fact that his mouth is closed and that he's quite still," continued the Patrician. Drumknott's heart was beating double quick. Over the course of time, he had gotten used to his master's workaholic insomniac ways. But really, the appearing out of thin air thing never stopped giving him the 'heebie jeebies'. So to speak.

A hand landed on his shoulder, almost _caressing._ Looking down, Drumknott fancied he could feel his heart slamming against his ribs, fruitlessly screaming, "Lemme out! Lemme outta here! He's coming _closer_!"

"Well _done_, Drumknott," said his lordship's voice, very near his ear this time. "We've survived one day."

This is the time to hit him for a raise, said a little voice inside him. Or just hit on him.

Drumknott really hoped that Vetinari couldn't read minds. "When you say 'we'," wavered Drumknott, "I suppose you mean…" Me. The word withered on his tongue while Vetinari's hands were gently stroking his shoulder. "… um. _We_ will be continuing to look after Young Sam, er, _together_?"

"Just the same as today till Commander Vimes returns," said Vetinari. He leaned in. Drumknott gulped, feeling warm breath by his ear. "I'm sure that we can handle it, Drumknott. And… there might be something in it at the end for you."

Drumknott swallowed again. "Erm, I know Lady Sybil is very generous," he said weakly. "Her ladyship will appreciate… _our_ effort. But I'm sure I'd do just a good enough job anyway without having to be tipped."

There was a mildly stunned silence from behind him. Drumknott sounded remarkably sincere. Vetinari straightened up. "Very good indeed, Drumknott," he said oddly. "I leave you to some rest. Be up in a few hours, I think I'll need the Klatch correspondence ready by tomorrow."

"Yes sir." Drumknott nodded fastidiously, opening the door for Vetinari and bowing as his master swept out.

Drumknott studied Vetinari's back, blushing. (Well. His behind really.) The Patrician sounded like he'd had a frog in his throat. Perhaps that explained the husky voice and why Vetinari had had to stand so close to make himself heard. Drumknott made a mental note to order him some tea and honey. The Patrician really worked too hard.

---

Vetinari was prone to saying that he didn't hire fools. Most of the time anyway. Until now, he had never placed Drumknott among the category of the 'slow' ones. He was tempted to rethink that opinion tonight. Either the man was hopelessly innocent, or he was really, really _stupid._

---

Drumknott nibbled on the end of his quill as he paused in his writing.

…_and today Lord V. asked me all sorts of odd questions, like whether or not Mama had dropped me on my head as a baby. Said no sir, being that mama hadn't lived long enough to do so and my stepmother was a kindly woman, sir, not prone to dropping babies on heads even if they deserved it. Think self heard him mutter that 'if there ever was a baby then he was looking at it. 'My Lord was looking over at Sammy as he said this, but self is sure he didn't mean anything. Sammy was just sucking his toes, and doing it quite adorably, self thought. Maybe Lord Vetinari thought that it was the equivalent to sucking his teeth – or staring into space and saying, "Yes sir, whatever you say, sir." He had been doing it all the time Lord V. was talking to self about more personal things. Sucking his toes, I mean, not saying 'yes sir, whatever you say, sir' since Sammy can't talk. He was staring at the little mobile I'd put up too, not into space, I'm sure._

_Think that his lordship believes that Sammy takes after his father more than strictly necessary. Also objected to putting up of little mobile (v. adorable. Ducks and chickens and planets). Said he wasn't one to complain but he rather felt it lowered tone of office._

_Lord. V. has many other intimidating stuff in Oblong Office, don't see what one little mobile will do in 'lowering tone'. In fact, when called Postmaster Lipwig in, he stared at the mobile all through the interview and agreed quite vaguely to reserving special bag and rider all for government work. After that, Lord V. raised no more objections._

_Glad he has realized that Sammy's education must not falter even when Lady Vimes isn't around._

_Lord V's cold is better, not sniffling at all. Gave me funny look when offered him tea and honey, but drank it anyway._

_Said that there was a limit though, and that scarf was _it.

_But he smiled when he said it. You know the kind of smile he gets sometimes when he watches Wuffles make his way towards someone's ankles…_

Drumknott's nibbling intensified, as a blush spread over his face and the butterflies in his stomach trailed sparkling, crackling fairy dust.

_You know the kind of smile that always makes me feel…_

The pen splintered in his mouth. Drumknott yelped, spitting the pieces out and reflecting that he wouldn't think of Vetinari while writing again. He had already lost four pens that way, and thrown away one. (He had been sucking that one while thinking, and when he came to his self, as it were, he was quite mortified).

Young Sam was taking his afternoon nap. The morning had passed quite peacefully. Young Sam had pulled Wuffles's tail, overturned a bottle of ink onto the Borogvian letters, and competed with Wuffles for the honor of biting several visitors ("No, no Sammy! Don't put that in your mouth, you don't know where it's _been!_" The streets of Ankh-Morpork, actually. Not that it was particularly reassuring to know). Then they had gone out into the garden to work. Young Sam had fallen onto the single carp that swam in the lake.

All in all, it could have been worse.

They were having fried carp for dinner. Drumknott hoped it wasn't the same one.

There came a knock on the door, and it was swung open by one of the palace maids, a quiet, Agatean looking girl with eyes that seemed to be constantly thinking about what was for dinner. Dreamy, contemplative eyes. She had a small pimple on the end of her nose, and pins constantly fell out of hair. "Your lunch and the milk, sir," she said, staring past him at a pile of steaming parsnips only she could see. "And some paperwork that his lordship gave me for you." There was something in her voice that implied this was the singular most meaningful moment in her life, except maybe mashed potatoes.

"Yes, thank you," said Drumknott, taking the tray, and the files from her. He wondered how many of the maids in the palace worked in permanent hope of seeing the Patrician. Mrs. Palm had on occasion said something along the lines of throwing up her highly profitable trade for a pinafore if she could be assured of getting one glimpse of Vetinari's legs.

Not that she didn't wear a pinafore some days; for certain gentlemen with Tastes, but you knew what she meant.

Drumknott checked his watch. 0.8457 of a minute to wait before Young Sam was supposed to wake up for his feed. Drumknott waited conscientiously, and then, right on the dot, gently joggled the baby awake and fed him. He did the paperwork meticulously, and then set to his own lunch which by then, had become dinner.

Vetinari dined on dry bread, a little carp, and another cup of hot tea and honey that the stuttering maid said Rufus Drumknott had ordered for him.

---

They arrived at the castle with no trouble, driving up the narrow, winding path towards the craggy, black citadel. It was, as Sally said with a sniff, ostentatiously gothic. The wolves had just begun to howl as they entered, the gates clanging shut, puncturing a wheel so the coach was out of commission.

The Count apologized most civilly, saying that old habits died hard. Dinner would be ready soon of course, he had already eaten.

Vimes _did not_ ask where the body was. But only just.

The rest of the watchme—women—people—_species_ unpacked in their own rooms. All but one.

Ping sat at the edge of his bed, head in his hands. He was shaking every once so often. The problem with Ping was that he _didn't_ have an imagination, and precious little had disturbed the oyster of his mind. Thus, when a bit of dust landed, the mollusk that was his mind began coating it, with the assistance of _The Adventures of Molly Strumpet_.

Every once so often, Cheery came over and tried to rouse him. She walked over, her armor clanking, and gently touched his arm. "Come along, Ping," she said kindly. "It's dinner time. All of us are going down, and I'm sure you're hungry."

"Commander Vimes too?" he said, lifting his haunted face.

Cheery shifted from foot to foot, looking uncomfortable. "Er, well, no," she said, hating to spoil the hope that blossomed on Ping's features. "They aren't. They're having dinner in their own room. They wanted to be alone. To eat. Erm."

Ping's head dropped back into his hands and the shaking intensified. Every once so often, he whimpered.

Angua put a hand on Cheery's shoulders and steered the dwarf away. "Poor Ping," she said, shaking her head. "I expect he thinks that there should be some sort of law against it when you're over the age of forty. They _could_ just be eating, I expect," she added, helpfully. "Just a nice, homey meal, I'm sure. And hot chocolate and whipped cream."

"Whipped!" squeaked Ping. "Cream!"

Carrot, who had been looking back and forth in confusion, even Carrot. His ears turned red.

Angua gave them both a long, scornful look. "Men!" was all she said, but she said it well. "You'd think that Lord Vetinari had just started dating Rufus Drumknott!"

"He _is?_" gasped Ping, through his protective fingers. The world was suddenly much, much… _weirder._ He didn't think he could take much more of this.

Angua threw her hands into the air. "Honestly! Who knows? Have your cardiac arrest in peace, all of you." Tutting, she and Cheery left the room.


	6. Chapter 6

Author notes: A little characterization today! You'd think Drumknott were a hideously easy character to write (_I_ bloody well thought so when I started this thing), but unfortunately, that's not so. Especially when you happen to know that at least two of your audience happen to be… well, obsessive. To say the least. Knitting together those little sections where Drumknott _does_ appear, into a character who can correctly play a love interest without swooning – and keeping him familiar and naughty (Drumknotty, that is. Get it? Oh, nevermind… just throw the fruit at me) – is quite hard. I picture Rufus Drumknott as _comparatively_ young (Vimes and Vetinari are fifty, after all. So when Drumknott is described as a 'young man' from Vimes's point of view, it could be that he's thirty or so); and extremely naïve – which is not technically the same as being stupid. Because he is an observer, he probably could discern emotions from others _to_ others, but not to himself because he's used to being treated as a sort of walking file cupboard. As for Vetinari, well, this is my punishment for presuming to make him play a romantic role. How exactly do you fit love into a mind that works like an oiled machine? (A _good_ oiled machine, that is. None of that cheap stuff like this computer which keeps breaking down). I decided to approach it in the manner of an amoeba. Nothing throws Vetinari much. And he doesn't spend time in his pinstriped boxers, paddling in Denial. I think that should he be in love – or lust – he simply goes for it. He doesn't waste time going '0h n03, h0w cud this b??' He simply strategizes the easiest way into bed. Like the amoeba – what's the name of that process again? – where it just sort of engulfs it's food. No thoughts there. No existential doubts. Oh wait – it's phagocytosis!

That said, I'm sorry this chapter took so unforgivably long in coming. And I'm sorry for rambling as well.

Kamii-Kitsun: Thank you, I'm glad you liked my fic! I hope you enjoy this chapter

Twist: **-bounce- **Ahhh, I love long reviews, thank you very much for yours! I'm glad you enjoyed the fic, and yes, _The Prince_ isn't exactly the Karma Sutra, is it? XD As for the workaholic insomniac line, I'm so sorry if that sounded like I plagiarized it from you. I've been reading a lot of Vetinari-centric fics and there were many descriptions of him along the same lines so it must've seeped into my consciousness. And speaking of which, when are you going to regale us with some more of your lovely fics? I loved Lead!

Janinepsa: I love it when people tell me they laughed hard. Or that they ruined their keyboard spitting coffee all over it. Either way. Thank you! I hope you enjoy this new chapter.

Drummers: Massages? You know you want me to ask about them. And to be fair to Drumknott, Vetinari wasn't rubbing up to him. Just his shoulder. He's still an idiot though.

Vaguely Downwards: YES CROWLEY/AZIRAPHALE FOREVER! (or 4eva, if you prefer) I'm so terribly glad that Drumknott/Vetinari is contagious. You reassured me on several parts of my fic I wasn't entirely sure of (May-Sue, etc), thank you very much for that! I hope you enjoy this new chapter

Raz2b: Oh yes, I have that scene planned out, after reading your comment. It wouldn't leave my mind. Thanks for the review! (And the really priceless metaphors I've tried to apply to describe the sheer force of Angua's sanity crumbling)

---

Carrot came out of the room eventually, and found the two female sergeants waiting for him in the dining room. Angua was poking at her salad. She looked up and smiled at Carrot. "How's Ping?" she inquired, not without a little malice.

"Oh, he's fine. I just gave him an ice-pack and told him to lie down."

"Hah!"

Cheery looked at Angua, and then back at her food. She put down her fork.

"You don't think that…"

"Cheery. Please. Not you too."

"I didn't mean _that_. Not Commander Vimes. I meant about Rufus Drumknott and the Patrician. Because Drumknott's quite a pleasant person, you know. He always calls me 'miss'." With not much hesitation either. Cheery valued that.

Carrot looked slightly shocked. "That's not right," he said. "He should call you 'sergeant'. He's disrespecting you."

"I don't feel disrespected," said Cheery.

"That doesn't matter," said Carrot, firmly. "You're still being disrespected. I mean, do you want that, Cheery? I mean, do you really want doors held open for you, to have men get up come into a room, for them to pull chairs back for you, and – and – take their hats off in your company? Just because you're female?"

"That only happened once, Carrot," said Angua. "And Fred only got up when Sally and Cheery came in because Nobby had put a pin in his chair."

The werewolf's face was impassive and gave no sign of what she was thinking. Incidentally, her thoughts happened to go along the lines of: _Yet another one of those times I wonder why I really, really like him. It's certainly not because of the size of his –_

_--father's mine. That's dwarfish thinking. And I'm not even a dwarf!_

"Mr. Drumknott is a very nice man," said Carrot seriously, to Cheery. "I'm sure if you asked him to, he's start calling you sergeant."

"I'll… think about that," said Cheery faintly. "But I don't have to, if I don't want to."

"Look," said Angua. "Let's stop this, right? It's all getting a bit silly. What were we talking about earlier?"

"About Mr. Vimes's and-"

"Right, we'll skip that then," said Angua, putting another curl of lettuce into her mouth. It was crunchy, and green and still glistening with dew and it was completely unsatisfying. Angua bit into a radish violently. "We're not going to talk about that one, okay?"

---

The third day with Young Sam was not good. Neither was it particularly gut-wrenchingly, horrifyingly, why-was-I-born bad. Imagine going out of the bathroom with your robe tucked into your underwear. Imagine your skirt ripping in the middle of a crowded train station. Imagine flashing your teddy bear bra at that very good looking maths teacher. Imagine getting up to go over to your crush, only to discover he was waving at the girl behind you. Imagine walking in on your parents in the middle of procreating and giving you a little brother. Put them all together.

Multiply by five hundred point nine.

That's how excruciatingly embarrassing the day had been.

Something had changed, Drumknott acknowledged early on, in his relationship with his lordship. It worried him. Well, alright, he had a ridiculous sort of – _lust_, a desire for his employer (who just happened to be the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork, of course). He had, well, yes, he'd had – _those_ sort of dreams about his employer (who, let us recapitulate, was the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork). But Drumknott had put it down entirely to his deprived childhood. If only he'd gotten that pinstriped pair of trousers on Hogswatchnight like he'd _wanted_ when he was eight, he would never have been harboring such urges (concerning, let's just underline it's impossibility, _the Patrician of **Ankh-Morpork**_)

In an entirely human way, Drumknott acknowledged it. He didn't get out much. He wasn't terribly old yet. He wasn't the type of person who could find any sort of excitement in the woodcut of a strange Klatchian belly dancer. And Dream-Vetinari was entirely different from the Vetinari in the office. Dream-Vetinari wore silky robes that seemed to dissolve at a tentative touch. Dream-Vetinari's eyes were dark and smouldering and didn't have so many fine lines at the sides. Dream-Vetinari knew interesting ways of eating ice-cream.

They were two totally different men. Nothing wrong with that, falling in love with a fictional character. People did it everyday!

It was just another part of him now. Just like a love of pinstripes, and filing.

Which was why it was completely ridiculous, the way his jaw dropped; the way his eyes widened; and the way his brain seemed to melt into a sort of sparkly pink gloop that kept squeaking, "Oh my lord, oh my _lord_."

Vetinari was wearing _robes that fell apart revealing tight trousersohdearlordohheaven – no, no, hell! Hell!_

He looked at himself in the mirror, raising one arched, dark brow. Drumknott whimpered piteously to himself. "What do you think, Drumknott? Perhaps a little too… shocking for our esteemed wizards at the Unseen University?" Long, strong fingers stroked the dark material delicately. "_Ohgodssweetgods,_" said the sparkly pink gloop. "Hm. I'm not quite sure I can carry this off though. Drumknott? Drumknott?"

"…yessir?" said Drumknott weakly, moving to open a window. It was getting a little warm in here. The sights and yes, smells, of Ankh-Morpork rose comfortingly and most definitely put off thoughts concerning the Patrician's legs. It could have been worse, after all. He could have worn those tight pants that stopped just below the calves and –

_Oh dear._

Drumknott leaned out again, for another breather of _Ew de Ankh_. "It looks very nice indeed, my lord. I'm sure it'll make quite a sensation."

_Especially if there are going to be any females there._

…_good thing the UU wizards didn't allow women in their ceremonies…_

Drumknott stifled that little pang of jealousy. It wasn't as if Vetinari had put on that – that – that ensemble for his head clerk's viewing pleasure after all. It wasn't as if the Patrician owed him _anything_ – except maybe last month's salary. He pulled away from the window and glanced in the corner where Young Sam was trying to eat Wuffles's food.

"Sammy!"

---

There had been times when Vetinari wanted to throw Vimes into the scorpion pits, but he had always resisted that sort of thing. Tyrants had been overthrown for smaller things than making Fred Colon captain again. And now, he resisted the urge to fling Vimes's offspring into the pits as well. He'd _had_ Rufus Drumknott there! He could read it in the sudden flame in Drumknott's cheeks, in the way Drumknott had looked at him, like he was going to faint, or come right on the spot. Vetinari knew what to do next.

_Oh, is there something at the back of this outfit, kindly brush it off, Drumknott. Thank you very much indeed, hmmmm…a bit lower, I think…_

Well of course this sort of thing came up in politics too. Klatch refused to sign a contract because the Agatean Empire was making eyes at EcksEcksEcks. But it had never been this frustrating! It wasn't as if people were more complicated than _countries_.

"Don't we feed him enough?" he remarked, glaring at Young Sam, a smudge of dog food dribbling down his chin. Wuffles still growled, guarding his food and snarling at Drumknott who had snatched the baby boy up. His clerk had certainly moved fast, swooping down and catching the bra—baby by a pudgy waist. Young Sam dribbled and cooed and put fat arms around Drumknott's neck. And stuck his tongue out at Vetinari.

"Does 'oo want more yum-yums, Sammy?" fussed Drumknott in a way that should have made Vetinari feel sick to his stomach. Or at least _amused_. Well, he did feel amused. But touched as well. And tender. This 'love' business was really idiotic.

The baby still in one arm, Drumknott started to tidy up the office in a last-minute preparation to be off. A sudden flash of color hidden under the piles of clinical white paper belying the number of scandals and cheating going on caught his eye. "What the-"

He looked up at Vetinari and caught the Patrician's eye. And his bright smile.

Drumknott gulped, and slowly slid the romance novel back under the paper.

"Let us go, Drumknott," said Vetinari, still smiling.

"Um… yes, my lord."

They walked down the halls swiftly, Drumknott automatically classifying the things in his briefcase. The invitation to the UU ceremony – neglible, as if Vetinari would be refused entrance; Young Sam's teddy-bear – important; Young Sam's wraps – very important, Drumknott didn't want him to catch cold; sweets and Young Sam's bottle – so he wouldn't be hungry, poor thing; Young Sam's pacifier – very, very, very important…

-- _Why_ had Lord Vetinari been reading romance novels? --

Vetinari paused before getting into the carriage. "…he's coming with us?" he said blandly.

Drumknott stared up at the Patrician. "Of course, my lord," he said. "We couldn't leave him behind, could we?"

"Oh, of course," murmured the Patrician. "Naturally. Of course." He let go of the carriage door and got in elegantly, the robes swinging open slightly. Drumknott swallowed, and completely didn't notice that Vetinari had left little fingerprints on the door. It was either that or fling the bra- baby to a guard (and promote him if the captain managed to drop Young Sam) and drag Drumknott into the carriage where they could be alone.

Oh for Gods' sake…

This love business was a lot harder than _Wild Reckless Spring_ (sequels: _Wild Reckless Summer, Wild Reckless Autumn_, and _Wild Reckless Winter_. The author has also published,_ Men are from Elephants, Women are from Turtles_) would have had him believe. Maybe it would help if he ripped off Drumknott's clothes. Well, it wasn't as if he had a _bodice_.

The carriage ride was uneventful. Young Sam sat on Drumknott's lap and tried to look out of the window, chortling every time they went over a bump. "'Tore!"

"Yes, that's right, Sammy. A store."

"'The-oy 'tore!"

"Clever boy! Yes, that's the toy store."

"Wannawanna the-oy!"

"Not right now, Sammy. Here's your teddy-bear if you want."

"Wannawannawannawanna the-oy _now_!"

Young Sam had a glint in his eye, and he was bouncing up and down like a ball made of hard rubber.

"Sammy!"

"Drumknott-"

"WannawannawannawannawannawannawannaWANNAWANNANOWNOW!"

There came a hard knock on the driver's window, and it slid open while a rheumy eye looked in. "'Scuse me, guv, but I couldn't 'elp o'er'earin'. Me'n the missus swears by a good kick in the rump, guv. There's many a poor child in Klatch what'ud be glad of a fing like that and no mistake."

"Your wife and yourself obviously have the right idea," remarked Vetinari. "Close the window now, that's a good chap. Hm, yes," he caught Young Sam's large, round eye meaningfully, "Sound advice indeed, wouldn't you say, Drumknott?"

Young Sam subsided and gnawed his teddy-bear's ear. "'Oul ol' Won," he remarked, glancing out of the window. "Buglit. 'Nium 'and'n swimp."

"You see, Drumknott? All it takes is a firm hand."

"Yes, my lord."

---

Vetinari swept into the anteroom of the Unseen University with considerable finesse. The room was a large place with a roof that swept upwards, giving the impression of being inside an egg. The ceiling had been enchanted to resembled the sky outside, not a good idea since it was now a particularly noxious shade of pea-green. Candles, proper dribbly ones too, floated in the air. The students, in two lines, waited nervously to be 'sorted', as it were. It looked as if another reality had dribbled in again.

A large, long table was placed behind a small stool with a battered wizard's hat on it. The table was piled high with food.

Some things never change.

Vetinari raised an eyebrow at Ridcully. "Well," blustered the red-cheeked, bristly-bearded Head of UU, "suddenly it just seemed… right. You know. To have this sort of setting. Good thing for a School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and all that."

"You don't teach witchcraft," said Vetinari.

"And real men don't wear trousers," said Ridcully, eyeing Vetinari's garments distastefully.

Drumknott flushed, "Well really, Headmaster, you can't talk to-"

Vetinari lifted a hand. "Shall we take a seat, Drumknott?"

His clerk subsided, hoisting Young Sam a little higher on his shoulder. Vetinari smiled at Ridcully.

"Trousers is sissy," bellowed Ridcully. "Hmph! Never let any of my wizards wear that kind of thing either. Tch, tch. What are we coming to." Several students were beginning to look uncomfortable. One small, scrawny green-eyed young boy couldn't fight the feeling he should have a scar and a red-headed sidekick. Ridcully gestured towards the table, and then leaned near Vetinari and said in a whisper that was as low as the whistle of a train, "Not that I begrudge civilians, of course. But we've got to set an example to the students. Already confiscated several pairs, if you can believe it! Right off them! They've even taken to wearing them under their robes. Tch."

Vetinari nodded and glanced back. Drumknott hadn't gotten over the 'right off them' part. His eyes were glazed with horror.

The students were sent to their tables alphabetically. They were told to come forward and sit for a few minutes on the small stool with the hat over their heads; apparently some sort of old mystic power was to spill over. Vetinari hoped they hadn't used the hat of the Bursar. Everyone looked slightly confused, and Vetinari thought it probably served them well and right for mixing around with things like quantum and continuum.

Beside him, Young Sam was fussing again, in Drumknott's lap. If his clerk was aware of the number of stares they were beginning to receive, he didn't show it. He was patting his pockets, rifling through his bag and generally acting distracted in a way Vetinari had never seen in his almost anal-retentive secretary. His covert observations were rewarded- and most rudely interrupted – with the sudden deposition of Young Sam into his arms. "I'm so sorry, my lord," said Drumknott shamefacedly. "But I think I left his bottle in the carriage and he's hungry. If you could just hold him for a while-"

"Can't he eat roast beef like the rest of us?"

"He's only got three teeth, sir. And it's probably not good for his stomach."

Vetinari's face didn't move a muscle, but somehow managed to convey his feelings devastatingly. He shifted more comfortably under the added weight of Young Sam. A little more of his robe fell apart, revealing his trousers. Drumknott scurried off, very red in the face suddenly.

Vetinari sat back. Well, there were compensations. He lifted a curl from Young Sam's ear. "Don't," the Patrician said sweetly, "even _think _about burping up over these."

"Ug," sniffed Young Sam.

---

"Behavin' 'imself, is 'e, guv?"

"Hm? Oh yes. Yes, I suppose he is," said the clerk rather absently as he dug under the carriage seats. He'd been _sure_ the bottle had been there. How had it gotten out of the bag? Pushing his spectacles further up his nose, Drumknott recognized a dim bottly shape further up. He reached towards it. With all the stretching and flexing and Drumknott's behind wriggling, Vetinari would probably be sorry he had missed it if he knew.

"Hah," said the carriage-driver, evidently disappointed at Young Sam's lack of gumption. "'At's what they _wants_ yer t' think. Git yer guard down. But nex' thing yer knows, th' damn bugger's got 'is teef round Auntie Emma's ankle."

Drumknott's fingers closed around the bottle and he breathed a sigh of relief, extracting himself with some difficulty. He blinked at the driver. "I haven't got an Auntie Emma."

"Jes' sayin' if yer _did_, 'at's all."

Drumknott nodded and backed away.

The driver spit reflectively onto the pavement. "Not," he admitted to himself quietly, "that I didn't tell the little bugger that he'd get a sweetie if Auntie Emma didn't stay the night. Din't have ter go to his mam though, complainin' that Auntie Emma din't wash 'er socks. Damn blabbermouth."

---

Mrs. Whitlow eyed the pale young man before her. He didn't have the most interesting face in the world, but he wore the Clerk insignia on the lapel of his admittedly neat jacket. It had a little black button too, which Mrs. Whitlow recognized as the Patrician's coat-of-arms. Mr. Drumknott was probably the Patrician's personal clerk; that little sable on ebony badge as good as stamped him as belonging to Lord Vetinari.

It was as good as a wedding ring, in fact.

(Or, and ignore this, that might be because the writer is admittedly prejudiced)

"Ai do not normally make such concessions," she said placidly. "A man's house is his castle and the woman's kitchen is her world, Ai've always said. But Ai'm sure we can spare some hot milk for your and Lord Vetinari's baby."

Color crept up into Drumknott's cheeks, blinking and looking about in bewilderment at being in such unfamiliar territory. "Not _our_ baby," he said weakly, following Mrs. Whitlow about as she filled the bottle with great competence. "We're really looking after it for someone el- no, I don't think _quite_ so much sugar will be good for his teeth – tooth – er, but you know best of course," he said hastily, quailing under Mrs. Whitlow's effective expression.

"Ai wouldn't _presume_," she sniffed, "to venture an opinion on politics and magic, _Ai'm sure_. But rearing babies is _quite simple_ enough for a woman."

Conquered and crushed by italics, Drumknott nodded and accepted the bottle when Mrs. Whitlow had measured into it enough sugar to send a dinosaur into a hyperactive fit. He backed out the door, thanking her as she returned to organizing the kitchen. That is, yelling at the maids to hurry up with the food.

Pinstriped legs scurried down the long halls as Drumknott searched for the right door. He managed to open one that didn't lead to the Dungeon Dimensions. It was the door the students used, and Drumknott catapulted right into a milling mass of black robes and of people complaining that their nethers felt drafty. He shoved through the crowd, holding the milk-bottle tight in one hand. "_Excuse_ me, ex_cuse_ me, _please_! I need to get through!"

One loud complainer paused in his activities to eye Drumknott balefully. "And how long d'you think you're gonna get to keep those pants on, eh?" he growled. "Ridcully'll have them off you sooner than you can sing 'My Bonny Blue Bonnet'."

"Look, aren't you all supposed to be in some form of alphabetical order?!" said Drumknott. Hey, it worked for filing…

"What for?" grumbled the man, plucking at his dark robes. "Think we're gonna line up so's we can get a chance to sit on some rickety old stool with a mangy hat over our heads? Think that's really special or something? Lifechanging? Call that special? _I_ don't."

Drumknott ignored this and fought his way through the navy-colored crowd. He had just about reached the high table where Vetinari was sitting with one hand softly on Young Sam's neck (precisely where a squeeze would cause great pain, but Drumknott didn't know that), when someone barreled into him, and made him drop the bottle into a forest of feet. It rolled somewhere under the robes of people who _were not wearing anything underneath._

Oh, bugger.

Drumknott felt a flush work up his neck. He could hear the bottle being kicked about. And people exclaiming at finding their shoes suddenly wet with milk and shiny sugar bits. "Erm," he started to say, "wait a minute, please…"

People were starting to stand up to watch the commotion. Vetinari caught Drumknott's eye and something in it made the clerk's stomach flip in a way that was definitely unhealthy. He placed Young Sam onto the Bursar's lap and made his way slowly, like a panther, slipping easily and with grace towards Drumknott.

It really wasn't fair, the way those robes swished about the trousers.

Drumknott turned towards him –

It wasn't violin music. Not even close.

"Hey, what the bloody --!!" Someone tripped over the bottle and fell over, pushing the person in front of him, who pushed the person in front of him, who pushed _both_ the people in front of him over… it was like watching a game of round dominoes with lots of swearing. They fell like an arbor of trees.

And when the person behind the clerk lost balance as well, Drumknott pitched forward, reaching for the first thing he could.

_Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiippp._

It was the sound of Drumknott's hopes and dreams.

It was the sound of impending joblessness.

It was the sound of something that would haunt his dreams. And not in a good way either.

It was the sound Vetinari's robes made as Drumknott fell forward onto the floor, taking a large part of it with him.


	7. Chapter 7

My abject and sincere (no, really!) apologies for the time it took this chapter to come out - the unseemly sentiment at the end of it, and also the fact that I don't have time to reply to the reviews I've a Bio test to study for and life's been hectic and not entirely pleasant either. I hope you enjoy this chapter, nevertheless!

----

"Whoops, here comes Mr. Jelly!" The Bursar broke the deathly silence. Young Sam gurgled and clapped, while the man's eyes began to roll and his face purpled.

"Dried frog pills, you fellows!" bellowed Ridcully, swooping down like a ba—well, like a heavily built something-or-other-dontcherknow with bat wings. The wizards, awfully pleased to have something to do other than watch the shreds of cloth lick at Vetinari's suddenly bared navel, dove for their own private supplies. It involved much shaking out of the pockets and several miniature universes met their Armageddon then and there since shaking, pudgy fingers were less careful than usual. There were little sizzles, crashes, booms and several cries of, "Hey, what's my thingynozzle doing in _your_ pocket, eh?"

Vetinari leaned down and pulled his clerk up. Drumknott's eyes were squinched tightly shut, and he appeared to be mumbling a prayer. It sounded something along the lines of, "…and if I should be fortunate enough to have complete use of appendages (you can get rid of the one between my legs though, that's never brought me anything but trouble – though I'd prefer it removed with anesthetic, if that's possible) please let me find a new job somewhere, O lord, and er – I'd make a _really_ big donation if this turned out to be all a nightmare..."

… _and a really, really, **really** big donation if everyone else disappears and Lord Vetinari takes off his pants before I wake up (but that's not strictly necessary)…_

Thank you, Lord, for your gracious attention. Awomen.

Vetinari studied Drumknott for a long time, while everyone else busied himself with not looking at them. Several stared fixedly into space and pretended they didn't exist and had not been in the same room at the time ("What body? _Oh_, you mean _this_ body – but you see I was astral traveling at the time and didn't see Vetinari's belly-button, so that's alright, eh?") They couldn't help feeling that this, one day, could happen them – only the Senior Wizards (and Ponder Stibbons) _didn't wear pants underneath_.

(Without the embarrassing crush on the boss part, of course. Hopefully.)

Drumknott had the type of face wherein color made all the difference. The glaring purple of his ears highlighted the curving, shell-like shape of it; the red of his cheeks brought to mind dusty pomegranates and the vermillion made his small, straight nose stand out daintily. His lips were very pale. One can only imagine (like Vetinari was doing) what they would look like swollen and rosy with kisses. Rawr.

Drumknott felt a delicate touch against his jaw, right where a small tap would probably paralyze all his nodes and kill him.

Vetinari stared deep into liquid brown eyes as Drumknott hesitantly opened first one, then the other. The clerk's mouth opened and closed soundlessly. "Erk," he managed. "Gehjk. Jkejri."

"Aanakjnenna," he squeaked, as Vetinari drew closer, so he could count the fine lines near those sharp, dark eyes. The Bursar found pills pressed into anywhere that wasn't his mouth as the rest of the senior wizards in one dense mass gravitated, metaphorically, towards the drama while attempting to look like they were trying to subdue their colleague and this took up so much attention that they hadn't even _noticed_ that the Patrician was practically nose to nose with his secretary, good heavens, is he really.

"We'll discuss this, Rufus Drumknott," said Vetinari. No damn, that hadn't been right. He kickstarted the right glands - or was it called the larynx? - and his voice came out interestingly, seductively husky on the last word, "_later_."

"Bejakleje," said Drumknott, as the feather-light pressure against his jaw was taken away and Vetinari turned to flash all the wizards a bright, bright smile. It was a charming, guileless smile that held more menace than a sword at the throat. It was a sweet, delightful smile that said, "_None of you were here, got that?_"

Ridcully looked up, ostensibly, from pouring dried frog pills into the Bursar's ear. "Hrumph, well, nice of you to drop by," he said, in the weak trumpet of an elephant being stabbed in the leg. There was a short mental search for another generic, harmless phrase, which produced, "We must do this again sometime."

"Oh, indeed," said Vetinari blandly. With an imperious gesture of his fine-boned hands, Drumknott, like one in a trance, went over to collect Young Sam. In the midst of his world crumbling, he felt a comforting hand on his shoulder, and looked up into a rheumy, sympathetic eye.

"Bang goes the X-men," said the Bursar after a long pause, patting his shoulder.

"Oh," said Drumknott. "Thank you."

Young Sam wrapped pudgy arms around his neck, which made him feel better till the baby started to make long drawn out '_riiiiiiiiiippp_' noises and blowing spit bubbles and chortling to himself. Vetinari swept out of the room, which was pretty damn cool considering he had practically nothing to sweep with.

--

An enterprising student gathered up bits of the Patrician's robe to sell to various people. Rather to his surprise, none of them were witchdoctors with PhDs in voodoo; but rather a miscellaneous bunch of young woman.

This has nothing to do with the story – unless the story was changed to 'Tales of the Scorpion Pit'.

--

"May I lend you my coat, sir?" said Drumknott in a low voice as they started to exist the building. In any other circumstance (i.e.: if it hadn't been his fault), Drumknott would have been busy filing away tantalizing glimpses of Vetinari's pale, lean belly. He would have noticed, for example, that the Patrician's belly button was an 'outie' instead of an 'innie', and that a faint dusting of dark (graying…?) hair led down into the trousers and he would have knitted it all into a warm ankle socks of erotica. But he felt too low and miserable, feeling sure that once in the privacy of the office (if not in the privacy of the carriage), the Patrician would steeple his fingers and raise a brow and say, "Drumknott, I'm not sure how we're going to get along with you, but from tomorrow onwards, we'll have to try."

That is if he deigned to fire him at all. Vetinari might not even speak except to have the guards haul his head clerk away.

"Thank you, Drumknott," said Vetinari, with a glance at the sky overhead. Oh, well, this was rather romantic, he reflected. The wrists of his longer, bonier arms stuck out, but he was still technically wrapped up in Drumknott's neat, black jacket which was still warm from his body. It smelt of him too, a combination of ink, freshly cut paper and, incongruously, hot chocolate. Drumknott's white shirt was interestingly thin with washing under his coat too.

"You yourself are not too cold, I hope?" he inquired with a questioning lift of his eyebrows.

"I'll live, my lord." _If you'll let me._

There was a sudden crack of thunder as the weather suddenly realised its duty to be cinematic and drive home Drumknott's torment. Rain poured down, and that was the only sound besides the carriage wheels slipping over wet cobblestones, and Young Sam, who had no sense of atmosphere, gurgling on Drumknott's lap. He had a pacifier in his mouth, and every contented coo that came through it landed on Drumknott's twanging nerves like a stone on a string of stretched catgut.

Vetinari was holding Drumknott's coat closed over his body, and he was looking out of the window. His long, pale, strong, capable fingers drummed his knee. Drumknott couldn't stop watching them. He couldn't stop thinking of them on his body. Specifically, around his neck and squeezing.

He shuddered, a full-bodied thing that jerked Young Sam about and made the boy squeak and giggle like he was receiving a ride. Honestly, the only time the baby chose to act like a sweet child out of some maudlin story (wherein, perhaps, the childish laughter inspires hope instead of sheer dread and hopeless rage. Ah, the brutal reality that leads us so happily down the path of infanticide) was when cheer was least needed.

Drumknott swallowed heavily. Vetinari flicked him a mild look and a raise of the eyebrows that was only a 0.2 on the Devastating Damage scale, but it further frayed the nerves that were currently all that was holding Rufus Drumknott's brain together.

Metaphorically speaking, they were long, gummy pink things, stretched like a net all over a pulsing grey bag of fear, pain, love, happiness, tears and filing. One by one, with each bounce; with each hair of that rippled along the strip of muscle over Vetinari's eyes that he overworked so that they could probably lift carriages in a way that any cape and underwear-on-the-outside hero would envy; the long gummy pink things were chewed.

Further attempt to accurately chronicle Drumknott's thought process at this point would have gone along the lines of: _Ohmygodsohmygodshekeepslookingatmehetheresdefinitely-somethingwrongandhesjustgoingtoletmestewlikethisthewholeridehomebeforehekillsme-_

Snap, went one long pink gummy thing.

_-ohgodsIdidn'tmeantoInevereventhoughtaboutitbefore(thoughIdon'tknowwhyitseems-likeanovelwayforhimtogetnakednonononononono)maybeitsmyfaultreallybecauseIkepthav-ingthosekindofthoughtsohgodsohgodsI'm-_

Snap.

"Drumknott?"

Snap.

"Are you quite alright?"

Snap.

"Only you've been staring at the carriage ceiling fixedly for about five minutes."

Snappity snap.

_Snap._

"-so sorry! Please don't kill me I didn't _mean_ to rip your robes I mean I never even _thought _about them coming off like that and I'm so unbelievably sorry and I'm sure I'll write a very long apology indeed to Archancellor Ridcully for ruining his ceremony like that and it'll never happen again, even if you let me live and Young Sam's bottle rolled under someone's robe and I'm sure that it's been smashed and now his dinner is ruined and so's the floor and what the files will be like if you fire me and let someone else just come in and take it over like that and I just ordered those new filing cabinets in silver and I'll never to get to use them-"

He paused to wipe his eyes, breathing heavily.

Young Sam blinked. So did Vetinari. At this point, Young Sam should have done something comforting and cute and innocent and sweet and silly – like spreading germs all over by sticking his pacifier into Drumknott's mouth. Or wiping his eyes for him. Or something.

Something that wasn't wetting his diapers, that is.

"Just as well he missed his dinner," remarked Vetinari as the smell rose. "Open the window, Drumknott, there's a good man."

There was a brief scramble that caused the carriage to rock side from side as it jittered towards the palace as clean diapers were fished out. Without the least bit of civic consciousness, but with every bit of self-preservation, the dirty diaper was thrown out of the window where it landed at Foul Ol' Ron's feet. His Smell leant down to inspect it – and it was love at first shite.

"Bugrit," said Foul Ol' Ron when he realized it wasn't edible.

"I couldn't fire you, Rufus Drumknott," said Vetinari, very much later in the evening. He had changed into his daily wear of long, black, shapeless robes. If he was wearing pants underneath it, Drumknott couldn't tell, luckily for him. Drumknott's jacket had disappeared, and he was too shy – or not suicidal enough – to ask it back. Just as well, really because Vetinari had –

-- well, nevermind what he did. It was _not_ soppy and he did _not_ fold it neatly away and put it in his treasure drawer, placing it tenderly just under the collection of Agatean killing instruments. Nope, not our Patrician, nossir.

And there was no alternate meaning – besides that of valuing Drumknott's uncanny skills with filing – when he added, "You're far too necessary to me to do that."

And if you believe that, you're in the wrong fic. Sorry.


End file.
